


Captain John Watson

by Robespierre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Military Kink, submissive behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robespierre/pseuds/Robespierre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt: John exploring Sherlock’s military kinks.<br/>Written for shinjutori for the August Johnlock Gift Exchange.<br/>Hope you like it, shinjutori!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain John Watson

Sherlock had never been attracted to a man like John Watson before. 

At first, he had tried to explain away the uneasiness he felt each time they touched as confusion brought on by the fact that he had never really lived and worked with someone before.  John was getting too wrapped up in his life.  There were fewer and fewer boundaries between them as they became more and more comfortable as flatmates – and as friends. 

But now, he reflected as he idly plucked the E-string of his violin, he couldn’t help but admit that his feelings for John were more than friendly.  He wanted to spend time with John, wanted to work with him, wanted to share stories and tea with him – dammit, just _wanted_ him.

It was the gym that started it all.  Well, not the gym itself, but John’s gym wardrobe.  A few weeks earlier, Sherlock had summoned John, mid-workout, to a crime scene.  John had showed up in his workout gear: trainers, mesh shorts, and an old, khaki, Army-issued undershirt.

 _That shirt_.  The fabric was stretched tight across his shoulders and chest.  And – _oh_ – Sherlock could see both the shape and color of John’s nipples under the thin cotton, taking him from mildly interested to achingly hard in just a few breaths. 

It had been so uncomfortable, shuffling around the crime scene and willing his erection to go down.  Unfortunately, John’s shirt was hardly long enough to reach the waistband of his shorts, causing it to ride up every time he leaned over the body.  Sherlock just barely refrained from reaching out to stroke the sleek muscles of John’s lower back. 

It was all so distracting that (and he would never, _ever_ admit this) his brain had stuttered to a stop.  _Sherlock Holmes_ ’ brain refused to observe, to compute, to calculate.  He simply stood for nearly five minutes, silent, oblivious to everything but the play of muscles in John’s calves and the sheen of sweat at his hairline. 

It wasn’t until Lestrade called John over to the ambulance that Sherlock was able to think again.  He took into account all the clues at the scene, spent approximately thirty seconds running through various likely scenarios, and gave Donovan the identity of the killer before turning and walking away.

He had managed to talk himself down, arguing that even his great mental facilities were allowed a temporary leave at the near-pornographic sight of John Watson’s pectorals straining to escape from the confines of his too-tight workout shirt.  In fact, he was surprised that everyone else at the scene had such excellent self-control as to keep from reaching out and touching, taking, tasting every bit of John.  The more he thought about it, though, he realized that nobody else had been affected at all.  Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade – they had all just gone about their business without even glancing twice at what Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away from. 

 _Damn_.  That could only mean one thing:  John didn’t appear to be some chiseled, cotton-covered sex god to anyone but Sherlock.

Sherlock spent all of his free time attempting to banish the images of John’s workout gear from his mind.  It was the only way that they could continue living and working together.  Any sexual desire on his part would destroy what was quickly becoming an extremely successful partnership. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock himself made the problem ten times worse.  Three days after what he was calling _the workout shirt incident_ , he was gathering information for a case involving a tailor who may have been concealing illegal materials and documents inside clothing.  For some reason that his currently addled mind couldn’t even recall, he decided that he needed to examine the inseam and hem of all of John’s trousers.  He’d piled them all on the kitchen table and didn’t realize that as he had turned to open a cabinet, he had knocked over the beaker containing the remains of the previous night’s experiment. 

In less time than it took him to find the box full of needles and thread that he needed, every single pair of John’s trousers was sporting an acid-created, grapefruit-sized hole. 

John had been _livid_ , especially considering the fact that he had that morning left his trousers on a bench at the gym instead of in his locker and the things had disappeared.  Standing in the kitchen in his gym shorts, not one pair of acceptable trousers to his name, John’s face had been red and a little terrifying as he stood and screamed in Sherlock’s face, occasionally poking him in the chest to emphasize a point. 

Sherlock’s apologies (sincere, for once, thought he had found it difficult to speak at first as John was again wearing _that shirt_ ) had fallen on deaf ears.  John eventually tired of screaming and returned to his room, emerging a few minutes later clad in his military-issued camouflage trousers. 

Sherlock’s words stuck in his throat, resulting in a soft, choked sound.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me!  This is all your fault, Sherlock!  I wouldn’t have to wear these stupid things if you could just _keep your hands off of my belongings_!”

That said, John grabbed his wallet and headed out the door. 

Sherlock had definitely _not_ been laughing.  No, he had been so overcome with lust at the sight of John in desert-style camouflage and khaki that he’d practically had to bite his tongue to keep from telling his flatmate that it was actually the body under those belongings that he wanted to get his hands on. 

He dropped to the couch, shaky with the adrenaline rush inspired by John’s clothing.  How could Sherlock ever have predicted that he would be so affected by cotton and polyester?  He analyzed the situation, trying to determine what it was about that combination of trousers and shirt that had him yearning to touch every square centimeter of John’s body.

It certainly wasn’t the color.  It couldn’t be the fit, for though the shirt was gorgeously tight, the trousers were baggy and designed for ease of wear, not the display of toned calves and quadriceps.  What then?

Wildly, he considered ridiculous possibilities, each one stranger than the last.  Mind-altering agents in his morning tea.  The camouflage pattern had hypnotized him.  John was not actually a doctor but was some sort of incubus.  Sherlock had some secret desire to be dominated by Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers –

 _Oh_. 

That was it, judging by the speed at which his hand flew to rub himself through his trousers.  But how could…when did…why would?  He gave up any hope of understanding this new discovery and allowed his highly analytic brain to do something that he had never before seen as useful – to fantasize. 

He saw himself as a prisoner of war; his captors attempting to discover the location of the enemy’s weapons caches.  He would have the information, of course, but would never reveal it.  That is, until the interrogation was turned over to Captain Watson, who met Sherlock’s gaze and told him that he knew exactly how to make him talk.  Captain Watson would lean over him from behind, his breath hot in his ear as he whispered promises of great rewards if he would only give up his secrets. 

Every other soldier entering the tent would defer to Captain Watson, almost as though they were afraid of him.  And, despite the man’s average height and unassuming features, Sherlock could understand why.  There was something about him, something simmering under his skin that promised violence if he was not obeyed, some steely core of strength lurking just below that mild-mannered exterior.

Captain Watson would spend all of his waking hours with Sherlock, treating him kindly but still attempting to break him.  Gradually, he would come to understand just how much Sherlock wanted him and he would begin to use that fact to his advantage.  At first, it would just be little touches: a brush of fingers over the thin skin of Sherlock’s wrist or a gentle knocking together of boot-clad feet below the table.  He would slowly increase both the frequency and the intimacy of the touches, until he was just millimeters shy of brushing against Sherlock’s always-hard cock.

Sherlock would meet his eyes, and there would be such an _intensity_ in his gaze that he would practically whimper with need.  Captain Watson would rip at Sherlock’s clothing until he was naked, hard, and handcuffed to the table.  He’d bite and suck at the flesh of Sherlock’s chest, making both promises (“Bend you over this table…take you so hard that you’ll never want anybody else...you’re mine…mine to do with exactly what I want”) and threats (“Nobody will come to help you when they hear the moaning and screaming…I could kill you right here and nobody would care…never be able to find your body…unless you tell me what I need to know”). 

Sherlock would be powerless against his advances, not wanting to resist the overwhelming authority that was Captain Watson.  He would submit, and Captain Watson would do exactly what he had promised:  make Sherlock belong to him.

He would reach out to cup Sherlock’s face, for once almost gently, _tenderly_ , then he –

 _Bang_!

Sherlock jumped to his feet.  John had returned, laden with shopping bags full of trousers. 

“How did you do that so quickly?  You just left!”

“Sherlock, I’ve been gone for hours.” 

That said, John stormed up the stairs to his room.   
  
Hours?  Sherlock had been on the couch, fantasizing about John (well, Captain Watson) for _hours_?  This couldn’t go on. 

But it did.  Sherlock apologized at least three times a day, and John forgave him.  Each day, they began to speak to each other a little more, until after a week things appeared to be back to normal. 

For John, anyway.  Sherlock couldn’t forget the way John had looked in his desert camouflage, practically _vibrating_ with anger.  It consumed his thoughts to the point that he refused to help Lestrade on three different occasions.  His brain was too full of thoughts of Captain Watson for him to be of any help to the London police.  He spent most of his time wandering around the flat or stroking himself furiously while he pressed his face into his pillow to muffle his moans of pleasure.

It had reached the point where Sherlock decided that he would have to leave.  He couldn’t handle feeling so out of control of his own mind; a few weeks away would help him regain the clarity that he needed to function. 

He swallowed his pride and contacted Mycroft, asking his brother to find him a place to stay for a while.  Deciding that he owed John the courtesy of telling him in person instead of by note that he was leaving, he walked around the flat, killing time before John returned.   
  
Nothing could hold his attention.  He tried reading, surfing the Internet, making small explosions in the kitchen sink – nothing helped to pull him out of the fog of lust he’d lived in for the last week.  He was just so tired of fighting against his own mind.  So tired.  

“Sherlock?”

Hmm.  John was home.  Sherlock was too drowsy and comfortable to move.  He rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow, loving the smell of John’s cologne. 

“Sherlock!  Why are you in my bed?”

What?  John’s bed?  Sherlock was – oh, he was in John’s bed.  When had he wandered in here?  What could he say?  Was there an easy way out of this situation? 

“I…well, I…don’t know.  I was just so tired.”

Strong, warm hands gripped his shoulders and turned him onto his back. 

“Are you feeling all right?  Sherlock, look at me please.”

He opened his eyes.  And gasped.

John was wearing _the outfit_ again.  His tight shirt was damp with sweat and the camouflage pants were just so – _oh_. 

“Why are you wearing that?” Sherlock whimpered. 

John looked confused.

“This?  I went jogging and it was a little cold, so I wore my trousers.  Why are you acting like this?  What is _wrong_ with you?”

Sherlock couldn’t stand it.  He was in John’s bed, surrounded by John’s scent, with John standing over him and shouting at him.  Something _snapped_ inside him and he launched himself at John, grabbing the back of his head and smashing their mouths together, sucking and biting at John’s lips. 

John’s body went stiff, his hands moving to Sherlock’s chest in an attempt to separate them.  Sherlock couldn’t stop; now that he had what he wanted, nothing could make him stop.  He moaned against John’s mouth, pressing his tongue against the seam of his lips until John finally opened his mouth and began to kiss back. 

John’s tongue wrapped sinuously around his as they explored every bit of each other’s mouths.  It was spine-tinglingly _good_ , causing Sherlock to slip a leg in between John’s and thrust.  Both men gasped, and John wrenched their bodies apart to stare, panting, at Sherlock.  

“What…why…”

“God, John.  Want you so bad.  I can’t stand it.  Please.”

John closed his eyes and swallowed, his throat working hard.  He took a deep breath and then met Sherlock’s eyes.

“This isn’t some experiment?” he hissed.  “Because if it is, I swear I will kill you.”  
  
“No.  Please.  I mean it.  I want you.  I want you to…”

Whatever John saw in Sherlock’s eyes must have convinced him of the detective’s sincerity. 

“What do you want me to do?”  
  
Sherlock suddenly couldn’t look him in the eye.  

“Don’t laugh.”  
  
“I won’t.  Promise.”

“Do you have a holster for your gun?”  
  
“Sherlock, I’m not doing anything with my gun and –”     

“No, that’s not what I meant.  Do you have one?”  
  
“Yes – it’s a shoulder holster.”  
  
“Can you put it on?”  He blushed.  “And your dogtags?”

“Why should I –”

“John, you asked me what I wanted!  Please!”

Keeping an eye on Sherlock, John moved to his nightstand to pull out the requested items.  Though he looked confused, he did put them on. 

“Okay, now what?"  
   
Sherlock fell to his knees in front of him. 

“Tell me what to do.”

“What?”

Sherlock nuzzled John through his trousers. 

“ _Tell me what to do, Captain Watson_.”

John’s gasp was loud in the quiet stillness of their flat. 

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded, his hands moving to John’s zipper.

“That – that’s good,” Captain Watson rasped, his voice gone low and scratchy with want.  “Keep going.”

Sherlock moaned, his mind reeling at the fact that John wanted what he wanted.  He unzipped the Captain's pants and cupped his cock through his briefs. 

“Oh!  Oh, take it out.”

Sherlock was only too happy to push the briefs to the side and finally get his hands on that gorgeously thick cock.  He pumped once, sliding the foreskin away from the reddish-purple head.

“Yes, Sherlock!  Oh, suck it.  Come on, suck me, _please_!”

Before he had even finished speaking, Sherlock had a hand wrapped around the base of Captain Watson's cock and his lips wrapped around the tip.  The Captain's fingers threaded tentatively through his hair, tightening at Sherlock’s moan of approval. 

Sherlock began to slide his lips up and down the length, loving the slick glide of hard flesh against his tongue.

“Oh, that’s – oh, Sherlock!         

Captain Watson's moans increased in both frequency and volume as he thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, eyes shut tight as Sherlock swirled his tongue around his cockhead on each thrust. 

Suddenly, he pushed Sherlock away, gasping. 

“You have to stop – I’m too close.” 

Sherlock just sat back on his heels and stared up at John, willing him to continue, to take charge and exert his power over him.  The Captain stared at him for what felt like minutes before nodding to himself and pulling Sherlock up, turning him to face the bed and pushing him forward until he rested on his hands and knees. 

Sherlock felt him grinding against him and moaned the instant that he broke contact, only to moan again at the realization that he was rummaging through his nightstand’s drawer.  For all of Sherlock’s fantasizing, he had never imagined what sex with Captain Watson would be like – he had never been able to last that long.  The thought that it might now happen was almost enough to send him over the edge, untouched and still fully clothed. 

The Captain returned to him, his fingers working clumsily at Sherlock’s zipper.  Sherlock helped, unbuttoning his trousers and sliding them down his legs.  Captain Watson cupped him through his briefs, but Sherlock squirmed away, not wanting their encounter to end so quickly. 

“Captain Watson, please!” he groaned.

The Captain only pulled Sherlock’s briefs halfway down his legs before flipping open a tube of lube and pressing one slick finger into him.  Sherlock squirmed, pushing back against that hand, wanting more. 

“None of that,” Captain Watson hissed.  “I’m in charge here, remember?  You’ll do what I say.”

That was it – what Sherlock had been unconsciously waiting for.  Captain Watson’s voice as he wielded power over him was everything that Sherlock had imagined.  He was becoming light-headed with pleasure at the thought of being completely at the mercy of the army doctor. 

Captain Watson was muttering words that Sherlock thought he might not even be aware he was saying.  
  
“Bloody insufferable…wanted this for so long…Sherlock…why didn’t you tell me before…”

At some point while Sherlock was lost in thought, Captain Watson’s one finger had turned into three, pumping in and out as he bit at Sherlock’s neck and back. 

And then those fingers were gone. 

Sherlock whined at the loss.  Captain Watson grabbed him by the neck and slammed his face into the mattress. 

“You’ll get only what I give you!  Now shut up and stay still.”

Sherlock froze, forcing himself to take deep breaths.  It was only through sheer willpower that he was able to avoid coming at the sound of that growled command, squeezing his eyes shut at the sound of a condom packet being ripped open.

With one hand pressing Sherlock’s shoulders into the mattress, Captain Watson nudged Sherlock’s legs farther apart.  He wasn’t gentle as he pushed his way into Sherlock, pausing for just a few heartbeats to allow him to adjust to the incredible burn and pressure of being filled. 

Then there was nothing but the slick in-and-out and the slap of the Captain’s camouflage-clad legs against his and the heavy weight of Captain Watson’s chest on his back, the dogtags digging into his skin through his shirt.

A constant stream of words poured from the Captain's mouth.   
  
“Sherlock, Sherlock…oh, Sherlock…you’re mine now…so good…wanted you for ages…can’t believe I’m doing this…never thought you’d be like this…” 

His hips snapped forward as he wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock, stroking just twice before Sherlock’s body went rigid and he came, screaming into the blankets.  Sherlock’s vision dimmed and he feared he was going to lose consciousness as he collapsed onto the bed, trapping the Captain’s arms under his body.  

Captain Watson thrust once, twice, three times and froze, his arms tightening around Sherlock’s chest as he gasped out, “Oh, Sherlock – I love you!”

They stayed there, hearts pounding and chests heaving, for just a few moments before Captain Watson pulled out and disposed of the condom.  He lifted Sherlock farther up on the bed to lie down next to him, wrapping his arms and legs around Sherlock as both of them drifted off to sleep. 

Hours later, Sherlock woke to John moving quietly around the room.  He had changed into jeans and a button-up shirt and was putting socks into a duffel bag. 

“John?”

John slowly turned to face him.  His eyes were red, and he was looking everywhere but at Sherlock.

“I’m sorry.  I’ll be gone in a few hours."  
  
“Gone?  John, where are you going?”

“I can’t stay here.  Not now that we’ve – ” 

“What are you talking about?  You can’t leave!  This doesn’t mean that –”

“Sherlock, shut up.”

John finally looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Sherlock, I…I love you.  I have for a long time.  And I can’t be what you want me to be, just some kind of living sex toy.  Even now, it’s too hard to be here with you.  Knowing it’s not really me that you want.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open.  After several seconds of silence, he recovered enough to ask, “You _love_ me?”

John nodded.

_Oh, no.  I’ve made a terrible mistake._

Sherlock was suddenly able to understand what he had been struggling with for weeks now.  There was no Captain John Watson; there was only John.  John was the one who was strong and capable and slightly intimidating.  John was the one who had killed for him.  It might have been the Army-issued clothing that forced Sherlock to acknowledge his attraction, but it had been there all along, simmering under the surface as they grew closer and closer.   The Captain John Watson that Sherlock had built up in his head paled in comparison to the man standing in front of him. 

“Oh, John, I am so sorry.  I thought that it was what I wanted.  I’m sorry I forced you to do this –” 

John laughed.  “You didn’t force me to do anything.”

Sherlock pressed on. 

“I want _you_ , John.  I’m in love with…I _love_ you.  I have been since that first day.  And I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.” 

Suddenly, Sherlock was pinned to the bed, John’s forearms on either side of his head, their lips so agonizingly close that they were sharing breath. 

“Say it again.”  
  
“John Watson, I love you.  And I’m so sorry.  Please stay with me.”

That should have been their first kiss, that gentle press of mouths as they pledged themselves to each other with their lips, John’s thumbs skimming Sherlock’s cheekbones and Sherlock’s fingers carding through John’s hair.  But Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to regret the events that had brought them to this point.  He had finally come to understand his feelings for John, only to find out that John felt the same way – nothing could have been better. 

That evening, as John slept with his head on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock reached for his mobile to send a text message to Mycroft.  
  
_Everything fine now.  Please do not disturb for a week.  WILL BE VERY BUSY._

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s forehead, settled back onto his pillow, and fell asleep with a smile on his lips.  

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
